The English Patient
by mei-san
Summary: Draco's dying... and he's infected absolutely everyone he's ever touched. Too bad he's Hermione's new client and neglected to tell her that little detail before they shook hands. DHr with a kick.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer**: This story utilises characters and situations created by J.K Rowling which are held under the copyright of Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and other affiliated publishing associations. This is a non-profitable venture, and as such has not violated any copyrights or trademarks.

**The English Patient**

**Part One **

Hermione Granger hummed along to one of her favourite songs and twirled around her apartment. It had been an utterly fabulous day; soon to follow was what was sure to be an absolutely incredible night. She had finished her three mentally exhausting years of lab science.

She had received job offers from the Ministry of Magic and a couple of top firms in the private sector. As if that wasn't excellent enough, her boyfriend was supposed to take her to New York for dinner at the famous Rainbow Room, where she had a feeling he just might pop the question.

She put her stereo on full blast and made her way into the shower. She hummed as she shampooed her hair, conditioned and shaved her legs to smooth perfection. She stood under the running water, the heat steaming up her bathroom and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored joint of her shower.

She looked like a woman in love with life, full of joy , a woman who had conquered her goals and fears and a woman who was about to find true love. She smiled at herself, eyes sparkling at prospects unknown, lips playing in a secretive smile as she delighted in the night that was sure to come.

She got out of the shower and towelled off, taking pains with rubbing her hair dry. She lotion-ed, perfumed and powdered herself to perfection and twirled over to the closet. She examined all of her options with care, gnawing on her lower lip while pondering the best dress to receive a proposal in. She finally selected a black tube dress and wriggled into its formfitting material.

She heard the doorbell ring and hurriedly slipped her feet into her lucky Jimmy Choos and grabbed a black scarf and purse she had lay out earlier on the bed, running to the front door.

She flung the door open and was faced with the very buff, black cloth covered chest of her utterly too hunky for words boyfriend (soon to be fiancée if she had anything to say about it. Of course she had something to say about it! Now was 'yes of course' or 'I'd love to' better for receiving a proposal? Or would a simple kiss suffice?).

He pulled her into a hug and kissed both of her cheeks. She attempted to angle her head in for a deeper kiss, but he pulled on her hand. "We have to get going darling, if we're going to make it in time for our reservations." His sexy voice sent vibrations through her as it always did and she followed him out to the communal floo fireplace that sat next to the elevator in the hallway.

"I've missed you lately," she trailed a finger up his chest, and over the cleft in his chin, stopping to trace his lips with her pinkie. "What with my finishing school and you beginning work excavating for Gringotts, I've felt as though we've spent no time together at all. I hope you can think of something suitable to help us make up time..."

She stood on her tiptoes to bring her lips to hers. It was so sexy, his height. Even though the Jimmy Choos were 4 inches tall, she still had to tiptoe to kiss him. It could have had something to do with her petite size, her frame barely totalling 5'5.

At the last second he tilted his head down to check the amount of floo powder he had in his pocket, and she kissed his chin, leaving a small pink smudge on his chin. She rubbed it off with her fingers and patted his chin again. "We should get going darling. Here, take some," he tipped a pinch of floo into her hands.

"The Rainbow Room, New York," she said as she stepped into the fireplace and threw the powder into the curling flames. She felt a slight swirling. 11 years in the wizarding world and she still had not come to be accustomed to travelling by Floo Network. Cross-Atlantic journeys still tended to make her nauseous and dizzy.

She arrived with a thump in a discreet alcove at the restaurant. A second later, he arrived as well, with a small pop. He grasped her hand firmly and led her over to the maitre'd. "Reservation for 2, under Hermione Granger." He inclined his head towards the head waiter.

The man motioned at them to follow him, and led them to the most coveted table in a spot by the window. He pulled out the chair for Hermione, who gracefully sank into it and allowed the help to push her into the table. He sat down as well, pushing in her own chair.

He ordered wine for the both of them, his French accent impeccable as the words, "Chateau Margot, 1988, first class," tumbled in a silken spiral off of his lips.

The waiter rushed away to obey the confident words. That was another thing she loved about him, he had a commanding quality to his body and to his words. He definitely knew what he was about. She could see him with their children...

"Hermione, I hope you don't mind that I made the reservation in your name. I just thought that even in the muggle world, my name might attract a bit too much unwanted attention. I have some important things to say to you tonight and I really would prefer for us not to be interrupted."

"Of course it's alright darling. Don't worry about it." She looked at the menu and ordered her food. They conversed about trivial topics, how her day was, how his day was. The soup came. It really was excellent and she commented about it. She could sense his nervousness, and resolved not to bring anything important up, instead inflecting her conversation with triviality and banality.

Their entrees came, her meat was done to perfection and she again commented about it. He asked her about which firms entertained the notion that she would go to work for them rather than saving all of human kind. She laughed and listed the names of the firms and their merits. Their desert came, and this was where the trouble started.

"Hermione, I know we've been together a long time..." his voice trailed off and she took a bite of her strawberry soufflé. She sat back, a small smirk on her face. She was waiting to see however he would muddle through this.

"We've shared a lot of good times and bad times, and we've managed to come through it all. I think that you're an incredible woman, you are so brave, so strong, so funny, so sweet and such a beautiful person, inside and out. Our three years have been incredible. But I don't think that we can be together anymore..."

His lips continued to move but Hermione heard nothing except '_We can't be together anymore'_ echoing in her head. She shook her head and came out of her trance. "...and that's why I think we should just be friends. Hermione? Darling? Are you quite alright?"

_Am I quite alright? This prat has led me on for three years, led me to believe that he wanted to marry me, have children with me, get old with me, and he asks me if I'm alright? _

"Are you certifiably mad, Harry? I certainly am _not _alright. When you bring a woman to The Rainbow Room..." her lower lip trembled and she felt her heart clench and shatter. She tightened her mouth, resolving not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"When you bring a woman to The Rainbow Room, it means that you want to marry her. It means that you want to spend the rest of your life with her and intend to begin aforementioned life together by proposing at the most beautiful, romantic spot in New York, maybe even the world. You think that I want to be friends with you now? I think you're delusional. Draco Malfoy was right, you really are the boy-who-lived-to-be-stupid!"

"Aww, Herm," he used her least favourite endearment. "Draco Malfoy certainly never came up with that one, although there was the-boy-who-lived-to-annoy-him." He chuckled, apparently expecting that she would chuckle along. He reached over and tousled her carefully coiffed hair.

"No hard feelings, eh? It's just that I think Parvati and I suit far better than you and I ever did."

"Parvati?" a gasp broke from her lips before she could stifle it. "So that's what it is. 'Oh Herm, I know you think I was going to propose to you, but I just wanted to tell you that Parvati and I are in love and that I think that we should be friends without any hard feelings'" she mocked his baritone, reached across the table and slapped him as hard as she could, putting all of her anger into it, resulting in a sound that echoed around the whole restaurant.

"Thanks for dinner, Mr. Potter. It really was excellent until desert." With that she stood up and dumped the remains of her mangled strawberry soufflé into his lap. "Oh sorry," she said nastily and picked up the maraschino resting on the side of her plate. "I forgot the cherry on top." She dropped it neatly into his hair and whirled angrily.

She stormed out of the restaurant to the tune of a sputtering Harry, attempting to explain to his fellow diners, why exactly a woman had dumped soufflé into his lap and run off, angry tears streaking down her cheeks.

Harry may have been more embarrassed than ever before-this was even worse than the time that Ginny Weasley had sent him that singing valentine, comparing his eyes to fresh pickles or something of the like- however Hermione was devastated.

She ran to the elevator bank and furiously pressed the call buttons. The elevator came and she charged into it, jamming her finger on the 'ground floor' button. As soon as the elevator reached her floor, she ran out of the building and into the night.

She really could not say how long she had run for, it could have been minutes or hours. She could not recall any of the names of the streets she had run past, her blurred visions only showing patches of "eaker st" or "th avenu".

She only knew that she ran until her Jimmy Choos gave out on her, the heel on her left mule snapping in half, leaving her sprawled on her knees in front of a Macy's.

She stay there for a while, bent in half, sobbing as though her heart would break, which indeed it had_. Her best friend, her confidante, her lover. They had shared such a remarkably rich history, he was part of her wizarding self. He and Ron were practically all of her wizarding world. _

As her tears subsided to a hot drizzle that fell between the sidewalk cracks she had an epiphany. She realized that Draco Malfoy had indeed been correct all of those years when he had called her a 'mudblood'. She did not belong in the wizarding world. She did not stop to think that she did not belong any more in the muggle world, but as her nose stopped running and her chest stopped heaving, she vowed that she would have nothing more to do with witches or wizards.

She stood suddenly, pulling herself up on a potted plant. She pulled out her wand from its strategically located place in her dress and threw it to the ground, snapping it in half with her razor sharp heels. She walked away, her head held high.

She walked out of the office carrying her polished leather briefcase, her high heels making dignified clicking noises on the marble pavement in the lobby, her crisp suit swishing against her legs, the stiffly starched jacket collar rubbing against her neck.

Hermione A. Granger was a professional, a very well paid professional with an armful of awards and some of the best created investment portfolios of her time to prove it. She breathed in deeply as she murmured a "thank you Ellis" to the doorman as he opened the door for her. She was not aware of the fact that the many doormen jostled to open her door not only because of her customary five dollar tips, but because of the great view they got as she walked through their doors.

She glanced briefly down at her watch, a simple silver chain encircling one impossibly thin wrist and sped up as she realized that she was late for her meeting. She walked crisply through the appointed door to her luncheon meeting, nodding politely at all of the service personnel, coming to a stop at a table near a window.

All of the members at the table were sheathed in black, several with noticeable tear tracks on their faces. She had been shocked that they managed to find her, after she had covered her tracks so carefully. She had thought that she had severed all ties.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Ron, Parvati. What can I do for you?" she asked, and sank down into the proffered chair, waving away a drinks menu, instead requesting "Bombay Sapphire Gin, on the rocks."

"Harry is dead, 'Mione," Parvati's voice, once so dear to her, rung out brokenly. "He's dead... he's dead. He loved me and now he's gone forever." She began to sob in earnest, pulling out a voluminous handkerchief from the sleeve of her- _rather unfashionable_, Hermione thought cattily- dress.

"I apologize in advance for coming across as so cold, but I do have an almost client, on tenterhooks waiting for me back at the office. How exactly is the death of Mr. Potter my concern?" she inquired, her gaze frostily roaming around all of the parties seated at the table.

"As far as I know, Mr. Potter and I parted on terrible terms, which all of you had contributed to, some more than others." She levelled her gaze once again at Parvati. "What precisely is at the crux of the matter that you had to come to me, his spurned mudblood, for assistance?"

"Well you see..." Parvati began, and trailed off. _Her brain clearly isn't holding a full arsenal_, Hermione again squelched a snigger.

"Hermione, all of Harry's money is tied up in a trust. And you have been named the recipient of that trust. Harry stated explicitly several times that he had changed the will to include all of us and especially Parvati, however at the time of his death, you remained his sole beneficiary."

Mr. Weasley stroked his chin. "So you see, it really is quite a delicate matter."

"I still fail to see how any of this is my concern, Mr. Weasley. With all due respect sir, I think that you all are money grubbing, back stabbing vultures, and that I have far more productive ways to spend my lunch break... Oh, for example, filing my nails so that they don't look so bloody shoddy at this afternoon's board meeting."

Hermione took a draught of the gin, which had come sometime during their conversation.

"How can you fail to see my concern? Harry has left you several million galleons, that are sitting in the vault at Gringotts, not being used because you chose to come off on some hare-brained adventure and revert to muggledom." Ron took a large gulp of air as he finished his monologue tirade.

"My apologies if the fact that my deepest connection to the wizarding world betrayed me upset me enough to come back to a world where I could be successful, not discriminated against and not lied to. I have several mill sitting in a vault at Gringotts.

"So-freakin-what? The goblins don't cheat people behind their backs as some wizards do. My interest will be annually compounded and left to my children and to charities to do with whatever they see fit."

"Well, Hermione, you see... We are in a bit of a tight spot here... and because Harry had planned to give us some of his galleons upon his death...maybe you could share your fortune out a little bit?" Mrs. Weasley began awkwardly. "See Arthur, I told you that this was a terrible idea."

"Hmm...wait, let me see if I have this all correct. So, you helped Harry cover cheating on me with Parvati, and basically encouraged her suit because her blood was purer than mine. And now upon his death you want me to share whatever pittance Harry has left me, probably out of pity or regret for his past actions? Does that about cover it?

Well, I'm sorry you have wasted your time, as well as mine. I must be going, I have an awful lot going on at the office today , you know? There's a major client... perhaps I can get given several mill to play with on the stock market. And Parvati, you're nothing but a second rate slut, by the way.

'Harry died and he left me nothing' she mocked Parvati's nasal whine, rather accurately. "Well boo-friggidy-hoo for you." Hermione stood up and threw some money, enough to pay the cost of their little luncheon, and strode away.

"Oh, and one more thing?" She turned back to them, a plastic smile pasted on her face. "If you ever mention to anyone in the wizarding world where I am, or what I'm doing, or even the fact that I exist?" She put on a fake expression of disappointment.

"Well I would be forced to extort every single cent, every single possession, every piece of property you may possess from you. And you know I have the means and the know how. Have a good day."

"Wow," Ron muttered, under his breath, watching her grab her coat and hurry out the door. "Wow, she's gotten hot."

"Ms. Granger," the man inclined his head. "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I've been interested in your work for several years. However," he chuckled, the sound like melted butter, "your schedule has always been far too full to accommodate a company as small as mine."

"I'm sure that that's not so," she laughed a little too. "Let me assure you that the pleasure is all mine. Now what can I do for you, Mr....?" she inclined her head in query.

"Mr.- ah- Mr. Dra-ah- Mr. Drake." He coughed, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair and fiddled with the cuff on his shirt. "Sorry, I have a bit of a cough. I'm not used to the climate here in New York."

"Where about are you from, Mr. Drake?" she asked, making polite conversation. If he wanted to chat a bit before making her the offer, that was just fine with her. He looked strangely uncomfortable, as though the tie was choking him or as though he wasn't used to wearing such a starched collar or something.

"Oh, me? I'm from all over, but mostly Devon in England. Have you heard of it? We export the most delightful clotted cream. And you, Ms. Granger? Where are you from?" He turned his debonair smile on her, sending a tiny frisson of pleasure up her spine.

"Well, I was born and bred in England too, but mostly around Leeds. I came to America about the time I was 20. My parents are New Yorkers. So Mr. Drake, as much as I'm enjoying your sparkling company, I'm afraid we have to get down to business.

"I hear you have a couple of million dollars to invest with us? Now what sorts of investments would you like to make? Are you interested in mutual funds, would you like to invest in healthcare? The health industry is growing quite rapidly as you know. There are a couple of new medical equipment companies..."

She trailed off as she realized that he was sitting there with a blank expression on his face. Oh how she detested these. They were the noveau riche, or those that had stashed under mattress springs for centuries. Essentially, they were newcomers to the stock market. They always wanted to invest in safe things...

"Sorry, Ms. Granger. Would you mind going into a little more detail about those health care companies? I've rather focused my portfolio on the futures market, and I feel that it's time to expand with something a little safer. Preferably not government bonds though, the return is far too small fry to be worth any of my time."

She had been wrong. He was obviously versed in the market, just not her sector. This was good, very good. She loved nothing better than a well returned risky investment. And it looked like he had the money to pay her to play. She had to talk him down the right way though...

"Mr. Drake, perhaps are you free for dinner?" she asked, mentally juggling the several functions that she was expected to attend. "Perhaps we could talk about this more in depth at say... the Rainbow Room?"

She hated the Rainbow Room. She abhorred it, detested it, to be cliché, her hatred of it burned with the intensity of a thousand suns. But being there was always great incentive for her success. She only had to think of that one night when Harry had left her, and she could charm a customer into anything.

Besides, most of them enjoyed the novelty of the room, New York's famous restaurant, the lover's spot, etcetera. Well, whatever got her the contract. In the last year, her expense account had been unlimited anyway.

"Ms. Granger, I can honestly say that I would love nothing more. I'll meet you there at seven thirty then?" He shuffled his papers into his leather briefcase- handmade, hand stitched, of the finest leather, she couldn't help but notice- and stood.

"Until seven thirty then, Mr. Drake. I can't wait." She smiled a genuine smile and watched him walk out to the elevator bank.

She was much better than he had ever imagined he would find her. He had hoped to find her destitute, on the streets of New York. Living a hand-to-mouth existence. Perhaps even turning to the oldest, most skilled profession known to man.

He was sorely disappointed.

The last time he had seen her image, it had been splayed over the front of the Prophet, her eyes red and watery, her hair stringy and her face grief stricken. He supposed that Potter had dumped her. Hadn't bothered to read the article accompanying the photo really, he had better things to do than to read the features section.

He had lost track of her since then, as he had lost track of most of his graduating class, the surprising exception being Neville Longbottom. They often met, his profession often intersected with the former bumbling fool's. He relished the ability he possessed to make the slightly chubby man tremble in his loafers, no matter what avatar he was in.

Perhaps it was just an inbred quality, he mused. He found his shape-shifter genome rather useful occasionally. Like this afternoon. Granger likely wouldn't have given him the time of day if he had kept his usual avatar in place.

He was astonished that his fruitless search had led him to her. Absolutely astonished. But if the knowledge that she possessed would help him to complete this, he would do anything. He was desperate.

"Well? Is she going to help us?" an annoyingly high pitched voice intruded on his thoughts. "Is she? Is she? Is she?"

"Would you please shut up, Margot? I'm trying to think, I don't need your voice intruding. Could you please order a bath drawn for me? I have a dinner engagement. And what led you to believe that this is a matter of an 'us'? This is me. You are my personal assistant, and a terrible one at that," his voice was deceptively rough.

"Yes of course, honey. It'll be ready in ten minutes," she smirked at him. "Hey, I'm the only personal assistant that's on offer for you. Everyone else would have left years ago."

"Well if you're that hell bent on leaving, don't let me stop you," he grinned at her.

"I'm the best. Don't let's either of us forget that, okay hon?" She juggled his date book, her Palm Pilot and her purse in her arms, while she used her cell to place a call requesting a bath.

My, she adjusted marvellously to the muggle world's toys and trinkets. It was amazing really, how he got away with paying her what he did. Some of his highest ranking officers made less, but it still wasn't equivalent to her personal worth.

He began to undress, unbuttoning his cuffs, loosening his tie and slipping off his shoes and socks. Margot called that his bath was ready, so he walked into the bathroom to finish undressing and bathe.

The water was steamy and lovely. He slid into the tub with contained contentment spreading over his face. He never showed any real emotions. Not even when he was by himself.

He ran through his pitch to Granger. He had no idea how he was going to pull this one off, only that he had to. Otherwise... Otherwise well he was well and truly fucked.

Hermione had had an awful meeting. She was in a crappy mood, wanting nothing more than to go home and have a long soak in a bubble bath, followed by a couple of glasses of wine and something delectably chocolate.

The board of directors had all been terribly un-encouraging about any future advancement of her career. Jacobsen- _never liked the slimy bastard anyway_- even had the nerve to say that the highest position she would ever attain at the company was personal assistant to him.

Gah! She couldn't remember the last time she had been so pissed off. She had thought that the glass ceiling had been abolished!? Where were women's rights advocates in the face of this injustice?

And to top it off, she had a dinner scheduled with a new client. Mr. Drake, or something like that. The unfortunate part was that he seemed remotely intelligent, so she would have to come up with new pitches for him, rather than the same old same old that generally worked on people who required her assistance.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. She was only 27 and already worry lines had begun to form between her eyebrows and crows feet beside her eyes. She felt far older than 27 some days.

"Mr. Drake- how lovely to see you again," she pasted a smile to her face, extending her hand to grasp his firmly and shake it.

"And you Ms. Granger," the set of his mouth was grim, as though he was being forced to do something he would rather not, she thought. Or perhaps like he had an unusually nasty taste in his mouth.

"Please, let's do sit down," Hermione smiled as the maitre'd led them to the table and pulled out her chair. She sat gracefully, spreading the snowy napkin across her lap and unconsciously signalling a waiter.

"Yes, what may I offer you tonight, Ms. Granger?" Luc asked her. "The usual?"

She nodded her assent and gestured towards her client. "And you Mr. Drake? What would you like this evening?"

"Whatever you're having will be fine," he waved his hand dismissively. "I have something important to discuss with you."

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked, shifting her body until she was propped up by her elbows on the table.

"It's a bit of a delicate matter..." he trailed off a bit, only increasing her curiosity tenfold. She shifted in her chair again, body poised.

"You see..." he trailed off again, chewing his lip- very full, red, attractive, yummy looking lip, she noticed- and messing a bit with his salad fork. "Alright, there isn't really an easy way to do this, so..."

"Do what?" she asked, as he wrinkled his nose a few times, first left, then right, then left again. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed a few seconds later, when the suavely handsome face of Mr. Drake morphed into none other than that of her childhood nemesis, Draco Malfoy.

"Metamorphangi?" was the first question she asked him after she regained her breath. "I wouldn't have expected it of you."

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Granger," he drawled, obviously more comfortable in his silky persona than in that of the rake. Or perhaps they were one and the same. She really couldn't tell. "I see you haven't changed a bit, Malfoy."

"Not as though you have either, Granger. Although, I must say, the absence of twenty kilos of books really does make a marked difference to your appearance," he flashed the trademark smirk that had enticed so many in their year and below, but never her.

"So what exactly did you want, Malfoy? I'm sure you didn't set up this elaborate farce just to see my beautiful kisser, eh?" she asked, a bit of an edge. She hated wasting time, absolutely hated it.

"Actually Granger, I have two proposals for you. First, I actually do want to invest some money in mutual funds, although far more than I initially led you to believe. Secondly," he began bluntly. "I'm dying."

"And this would have exactly what to do with me?" were the first words to leave her mouth. "Oh gods! I didn't mean that! Sorry, it's been a long day," she apologized.

"No, don't try to mask it, Granger. I need a dose of honesty. People have been tiptoeing around me for months, trying not to touch me, treating me like a pretty little bit of crystal."

"Alright then," she said, rather at a loss for words.

"I understand that this is a huge surprise," he began, raking his fingers through his hair. "I know you might need some time to consider my request but I would ask you to come back for a brief visit to the wizarding world. Just a few months or days or hours even- just long enough to find me a cure."

"What exactly is wrong with you? Have they done any tests over at Mungo's?" she inquired.

"So you'll do this then?" he asked, almost eagerly- certainly the most enthusiastic she had ever seen Draco Malfoy about anything unrelated to taunting her or Harry or Ron.

"I didn't say that, Malfoy. All I did was ask what was wrong with you."

"Well, Ms. Granger- it is still Ms., am I correct?- I have a debilitating disease, my skin and my internal organs are shrivelling slowly. A couple of weeks ago, Pomfrey tried out a new potion on me, but unfortunately it didn't work. As a result of the potion, everyone magical who I make skin to skin contact with, will suffer with a form of the disease for the rest of their lives, or until I- the original donor- have been cured."

"I hate you, Malfoy!" she spat out.

"Why hate me?" he asked her, amused. "Coz I'm beautiful?"

"You knew exactly what you were doing, _Mr. Drake_. Touching me, rubbing the disease in good. Making sure that I can't turn you down, no matter how badly a bastard like you deserves to die young," her cheeks were flushed and her eyes flashing.

"Why yes, I did know what I was doing. I may not have been top of the class, Granger, but I wasn't far behind you. And Slytherin outguns Gryffindor in the cunning department any day," he twisted his lips wryly.

Luc had silently placed their drinks on the table during the course of their match. Hermione picked up hers and drained it in one long gulp. "See what you do to me, Malfoy? You would drive a saint to drink!"

"Why thank you, Ms. Granger. But I'm not sure how you would know. You're about as far from sainthood as anyone can get."

"I never claimed to be one."

"Oh yeah? That's not what my memory tells me. All I see are pictures of St. Granger and her little pansy boyfriends saving the world from evil and still finding time to ace the NEWTs and help other little helpless cases."

"Whatever, Malfoy. I see some of us haven't managed to mature past Secondary. I understand, I really do."

"I expect you at nine sharp, Monday morning," he drawled, standing from his seat, tossing back his drink and sweeping from the room.

"Where?" she called after him.

A small scrap of parchment appeared on the table in answer. '9.00 am sharp, on the 15th floor of the Malfoi Research and Development Centre, Paris' it read.

Well, at least she wasn't feeling so down anymore. She was livid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: This story utilises characters and situations created by J.K Rowling which are held under the copyright of Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and other affiliated publishing associations. This is a non-profitable venture, and as such has not violated any copyrights or trademarks.

**The English Patient**

**Part Two **

Well it was '9 am sharp' just like he had requested. And bloody nice it was of her to even bother to show up too. He hadn't offered her a contract, any monetary compensation whatsoever, come to think.

She was in a bloody rotten mood. It was so damn early. She hadn't had her coffee yet. Good job that swearing in her head didn't count towards her pact to her friends.

God. The awful pact. She had no idea what made her pledge such a terrible thing in the first place. And with Draco Malfoy around, it would be even harder to keep the drunken promise she had made to Ciara and Jane earlier that month.

It's not as though she was swearing off some terrible sin like heroin. The pact was pissing her off so much that she was rhyming in her head! Whatever or whoever had possessed her to try to stop swearing should be strung up by its/his/her ears and dragged around a gravel driveway face down and...

A loud thud disturbed her musings. Malfoy's face was smashed up against the glass door that led into the office suite. She attempted to stifle a giggle, but gave into the impulse to crack up; her shoulders shook with mirth and she rolled off of the bench and onto the floor.

"What the hell do you find so entertaining?" his voice thundered out at her, which of course only made his fish face of the moments before even funnier.

She finally managed to pull herself together, readjusting her outfit and sitting on the edge of the bench, crossing one leg over the other, as though she hadn't just had a hysterical fit.

"Granger!" his voice was incredulous. "I didn't think you would bother to..." his voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed at his near admission. "I mean...Of course you would show up. Who wouldn't show up for me?"

"Why wouldn't you think I would show up? I said I would... didn't I? Besides, you have money and as long as you can pay for me to play... I'm happy to show up almost anywhere at any time," her eyes belied any false sense of nicety he may have gained from the first half of her speech. She was clearly there for the money.

"Well," he drawled, regaining his usual arrogant air. "It _is _11.00 and I believe our appointment was supposed to be at 9?"

"What the hell," she mentally slapped herself bad Hermione!, "are you talking about? I specifically chose my flight so that I would arrive at 9.00 French time! Your watch must be broken... you may want to get that fixed," she gestured at the impressive Rolex residing on his wrist.

"Well m'dear, I do believe that you calculated the time difference incorrectly. The French are 1 hour ahead of the English, not one hour behind!" he looked rather smug at triumphing over Hermione Granger for once. After all, she was the one that had held all of the answers for the duration of their school days.

She sat for a moment, apparently stunned at being wrong. She grimaced and slowly dragged the words, "sorry for keeping you waiting, Malfoy" out of her throat.

"It's quite all right. We all make mistakes sometimes!" he grinned, suddenly in excellent spirits.

She smiled back at him, a tad sourly. He was obviously revelling in her mistake. "Shall we get started then?" she asked briskly, obviously wanting to move on from her mistake.

"No, give me a moment," he murmured distractedly. He appeared to be filling out a very important piece of paperwork. "If you could just sign here...?" he indicated a hand drawn dotted line at the bottom of an official looking paper.

"What exactly is it that I'm signing?" she inquired, taking her pen out of her breast pocket.

"I'm sure you learnt how to read before you made it to Hogwarts! I suggest you exercise those tendencies. I'm not about to read it to you. If you want a bedtime story, I'm sure I can find more 'interesting' –shall we say- activities to put you to sleep," he leered at her rather... lecherously. There was clearly no other word for the look he gave her.

She began reading under her breath a bit. "...to certify that...was incorrect...Smeltinghurst Draco Malfoy," at that she exclaimed, "it's no wonder you go by Draco!" "...On the date of... What is the meaning of this mockery?" she suddenly screamed, outraged.

"It seemed rather straightforward to me..." Draco said, deliberately misunderstanding her question. "I can outline the main points of the document for you if you want."

"That will not be necessary," she smiled, her teeth clenched tightly in a sham of a smile. "Because this little document will never find its way into the files with all of its other signed, sealed and delivered brothers."

"Why ever not?" he asked, furrowing his brow, looking a tad bemused.

"Because it is not an accurate representation of the situation!" she exclaimed loudly.

"Again, at the risk of parroting myself; why ever not?" he asked, a smirk slowly finding its way onto her face in light of her obvious preoccupation and indignation.

"Because it fails to take into account that I beat you in every single subject for seven years straight and that I was correct about everything for every one of those seven years!" she bit out.

"Now, now Granger. It's okay. I promise you'll be fine. The first time anyone screws up can be a little daunting, but if you do more of it, I'm sure you will prevail in the face of this adversary!" he advised brightly.

"You sound like a bloody self-help guru," she growled.

"No need to result to petty insults. It wasn't me that was wrong you know," he rebuked her with a sad shake of his head. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure that I've been wrong on one or two occasions myself."

She snorted at this tiding, rather derisively.

"If you need me to pay to send you to get outside help..." he offered, gently patting her on the head. "I hope you haven't been too terribly traumatized by this highly irregular- I'm sure- occurrence.

"Right then. If we're done with this sham of a meeting, I'm afraid I have more important things to do back in London."

"You can't mean that you're leaving already?" he asked, a paragon of concern and compassion. "But we haven't even had our tea party yet!"

"Thanks, but no thanks," she said shortly. "Whenever you're ready to drop the patronizing act, give me a ring."

"Act? Whatever are you talking about?" he inquired, the picture of an angel reincarnated. "I can't say that I take your meaning."

"I'm sure you don't. Such semantic subtleties lie beyond your grasp of the English language," she collected her laptop case and walked over to the roped off apparition spot.

"Granger! Do Floo me if you think you want to take on this job ok? I need to do something about it quickly," he flashed her a charming grin. "I may die if you don't Floo me!"

"I can only hope, Malfoy! I'll call you when I come up with a decision," she said more seriously. "I don't do Floo anymore, remember?"

"Then I shall have to get one installed for you in your apartment."

"I never said I wanted a Floo!" she exclaimed, a little indignant at his forwardness. She turned around and began to stride off.

"Hey! You forgot to sign this contract!" he quirked an eyebrow at her, extending the dratted piece of paper and a Mont Blanc.

"No?" he asked, as she raised her hand to flag down a taxi. "But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me!"

"I suppose not," he said as she suddenly disappeared from his office. "Too bad," he remarked complacently, "it'll never happen again. It's like hooking up with Naomi or Christy or Cindy," he mused. "A once in a lifetime occurrence that no one would believe even if you told them."

She fumed after she got back to her office. How dare that little, rotten, mean, scumbag, doodoohead!? And he expected her to help him now? "Hah!" she expelled a snort worthy of McGonnagall.

"Have you a cold, Ms. Granger?" Jacobsen inquired, poking his head 'round into her cubicle.

Recalling the rude comments he had made about her ability to work, she replied appropriately. "I have no cold, Mr. Jacobsen, but I'm sure that if you don't remove your head from the interior of my cubicle within 10 seconds, I will rip it off and stuff it into an obscure orifice somewhere on your body."

"Jeez, someone's PMS-ing this morning! Whew!" he exclaimed. "My girlfriend says that a Midol really helps," he whispered confidentially. "Maybe you should try it. Or try that thing with a hot water bottle, she says its pretty good as well."

"Mr. Jacobsen, with all due respect, if you keep prancing around with such detailed advice about problems of such a decidedly 'female' nature, people may begin to question what you have in those tailored slacks," she peered sarcastically at the front of his trousers.

"Thanks for the advice, Ms. Ball Breaker," he said, clearly choosing to take her comment in a jocular fashion.

"It's not a problem, Mr. or should I say Ms. Jacobsen," she smiled up at him from her desk. "Have a nice day," she said sunnily, waving at him and swivelling around in her chair to turn on her computer.

"This is shit!" she exclaimed an hour later, after attempting to begin a proposal for the 43rd time. "'With the funds allotted to this capital venture...' No, that's not quite right either! Why can't I think this morning?" she asked rhetorically.

She attempted several more starts to her proposal, her attempts culminating in her banging her head repeatedly on her keyboard, until she was quite sure, an enter shaped indentation found its way onto her forehead.

It was time for a fortification break, she decided, grabbing up her coat and purse and marching to the bank of lifts. She pressed the button repeatedly; obviously she was of the school that believed that if they pressed a button hard and quickly enough, the lift would come sooner.

It finally arrived with a ding, and she stepped in; relieved. She leant against the railing in exhausted silence, grateful that she didn't know anyone in the elevator, thus necessitating polite small chatter. She didn't even think that she had enough brain cells left to exchange mindless remarks about the weather in England(rainy) or the chance Osama Bin Laden would turn into a woven cotton wearing, Vegan, anti-war hippie (not if pigs flew out of his arse).

She worried her lip between her teeth as the lift made its slow descent, stopping at the 30th floor, the 29th floor and the 28th floor, much to her annoyance. It proceeded to stop at every single floor- excepting, strangely enough, the 17th floor and the 8th floor. She _hated _it when those messenger people got into the lift with her.

When they finally made it to the ground floor, a good 5 minutes later, she was in dire need of a caffeine I.V., so she made her way to Starbucks, ordering a triple shot latte, skim milk, extra hot.

She was almost shaking when she picked up her latte, and she breathed in its fragrant aroma while sitting in a squashy armchair, her fattening, flaky pastry sitting on the low table in front of her.

She leant back into the chair with a loud sigh, taking a gulp of her latte. After drinking almost half of the _venti_ latte, she felt well enough to begin to contemplate the horrors of her situation.

One Mr. Smeltinghurst (she would be damned if she would ever let him live that one down) Draco Malfoy had offered to buy anywhere from a few weeks to a few months of her time, doing what she did best. However, she hated the man's guts. But, if she didn't help him, she ran the risk of dying as well.

She really did hate the smug bastard. She picked at the Danish in front of her and gulped down the rest of her drink for fortification. She supposed that she would have to take the 'job' as it were with Malfoy. There was nothing for it.

He was a little bit worried that she wouldn't take the bait. But the facts added up; of course she would help him... right? The situation fairly smacked of something Hermione Granger would fix. He was a desolate, – well spiritually desolate- dying, spiritually- although certainly not materially- impoverished man with an unknown, debilitating disease. Of course she would help him- it was in her little Gryffindor goodie good nature to help such hopeless cases as he.

And to compound the agreement, naturally, she too was infected with this debilitating disease that she would carry for the rest of her life if his case was not cured.

How could she pass this opportunity up? Just think of the headlines: Hermione Granger: Muggleborn Magical Malady Marvel, or perhaps; Discoverer of Debilitating Disease. How he loved the wonders of alliteration!

He had no idea what exactly he would do if she rejected his suit. He had no idea at all. He cradled his hands in his head, leaning heavily on his desk.

"Hey Malfoy!" suddenly a voice sounded from his fireplace. "Do light up! I need to talk to you."

The voice sounded increasingly familiar. In fact it sounded rather like... well, rather like her! He did a little happy dance, shaking his butt around the room, waving his arms over his hips and of course performing the patented Ricky Martin hip swivel. Too bad Draco didn't rhyme with 'Pelvis' because he was sure he would be rivalling that Elvis muggle man for the title if it did!

He jigged over to the fireplace and lit it rather enthusiastically. "Hello there! Whatever can I do for you?" he asked, halting his celebratory dance at the dismal expression on Hermione's face.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. "Can you not help me?" he panicked, running a hand through his hair a couple of times, worriedly. He looked worried as well; otherwise she felt sure that he would never risk his perfect coif like that.

"No actually, I rather think I can help you. Or, I'd like to try at any rate. I'm not so sure it'll do any good, but I'll do the best that I can," she said, a rather resigned expression on her face.

"Really?" Draco asked, delighted. He leant forward to hug her, enthusiastically, jerking back when he realized that she was only an apparition in his fireplace.

"Yes really," she said, more confident that she had made the correct decision.

"Fabulous."

"Well, this isn't exactly a social call, Malfoy. I need some samples of your hair and a couple of skin and urine," at that she shuddered, "samples. If you go over to whoever your mediwitch is, I'm sure they'll get you sorted. You can have them sent over by messenger and I'll try to get a look at them tonight, see if I can figure out what's what, ey?" she said.

"Will do," Draco saluted her, fingers crisp on his eyebrow. "I don't know how I can repay you, honestly."

"Oh, well," she flushed a bit. "If, and that's a big if, mind you. If I'm successful, I'm sure we can work something out."

"Even if you're not successful," he exclaimed earnestly. "I'm sure I can have several million galleons placed in your Gringotts account, very discreetly too."

"That's...That's quite aright, Malfoy. No need to do anything like that," she said, waving her hand dismissively in front of her face.

"If you'd rather have it in muggle money, I can do that too," he said, scrunching his eyebrow. "Let's see... the conversion rate is currently at Å´15 to £1."

"Seriously Malfoy, don't worry about that yet," she said, gnawing on her lip.

"I see you decided to get yourself a Floo," he twisted his pale face into his approximation of a smile.

"I didn't 'get' a Floo," she said sweetly. "I'm using one at Gringotts. I wanted to check the exchange rate. Anyway, I must be off."

"I can't thank you enough, Hermione," he said. "And I'm shocked that you think I would short change you!" he smirked. "I would never cheat a lady, and besides," he added, slightly under his breath, "it's not like I can't afford it."

"Well, by then," she said lamely. "I'll be in touch later in the week." She had a mildly disturbed look on her face.

They had both disconnected before he realized that he had called her Hermione, not just in his thoughts but to her face. It was most disconcerting.

She was on 'the horn' as her Dad used to call it when she was at Muggle Primary. Ciara and Jane were both dying to hear the details about her meeting with her old school 'friend', whom they had both seen in her annuals.

They thought that he was rather sexy with his brilliant teeth and that little cross bite, and that white blonde hair, and that bad boy sneer. She spent the better part of an hour trying to convince them that the teeth had no noticeable sexy cross bite and that his hair made him look like an albino.

Of course they didn't believe her, but they all made plans to go out to a party the following evening. "You'll be seeing Peter tomorrow night, you know," Jane remarked.

"Oh, yes. You should definitely make an effort," Ciara said. "Make him see exactly what he's missing out on."

"I couldn't give two farthings about what Peter thinks about me now," she remarked airily, although she made a mental note to check whether any of her male friends would be free to escort her- just to show him that she was most definitely, absolutely, positively over him.

And of course, she had been awfully busy lately. It would be nice to catch up with them too.

"You know," Jane began, practically reading her mind as always, "You should invite someone, just to catch up. I'll bet there's someone you haven't seen in a while."

"You mean she should make Peter jealous," Ciara stated, ever the blunt one in the group. "I think it's a fabulous idea darling! Go for it."

"I'll think about it," Hermione allowed.

They hung up, soon after; Hermione professing her need for sleep. She had had a very hard day, she claimed.

The following day, exactly an hour before she was due to meet Jane and Ciara for someone or other's little soiree, she was literally poking around in Draco Malfoy's pee. It wasn't the most pleasant of tasks, she was sure.

She had carefully distilled it so that only the minerals and wastes were left. She set up a wet slide and slid it under her microscope. Surprisingly, she found nothing to indicate that Malfoy was not of the human race, although his actions and mannerisms often marked him as such a being.

In fact, from the sample, all that she saw was that he was in perfect health. She realized that the situation carried rather more gravity that she had originally believed. If some of the toxins weren't coming out in his waste... then they must all be stockpiling in his bloodstream.

She placed the sample under her fume hood. She was not equipped to look at his sample in her little home lab. It was rather frustrating not to have state of the art equipment at her fingertips as she had during her college days. Damned frustrating.

She decided to call Malfoy about her need for a larger lab. Surprisingly he picked up, after about sixteen rings- not that she counted petty things like that of course... She jumped, a bit startled at the sound of his voice in her ear, and dropped the phone.

"Sorry there, didn't mean to frighten you right out of your wits," he said, after she had managed to pick up the phone and untangle the cord. "I've arranged for you to use one of the labs at the Institute."

"How ever did you manage that?" she asked, curious as what swayed the managers into letting an 'outsider' use a state of the art laboratory at their incredibly elite, prestigious institution.

"Easy really when you know how to manipulate," Malfoy shone his fingernails on the edge of his cotton shirt. "I bought the whole wing for you."

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, quite certain that her hearing faculties were failing her at an early age.

"I bought you the whole wing. You should have no problem using it now," he said happily. "And I will be better all the more soon."

"Er...I really don't know what to say, Malfoy. Thanks," she said, gesticulating inadequately.

"How about, 'Oh baby I want to shag you sore!'?" he asked, dropping his voice in a – oh she would never admit it if they tried to torture it out of her with Veritaserum- sexy manner.

"Oh in your dreams," she responded dryly.

"Believe me, you are."

"I'm what?" she asked, a bit confused.

"Are you tired?" he asked; a sudden change of topic to her mind.

"Why, so you can go and invite me to sleep over at your place?" she asked sarcastically.

"Actually I hadn't thought of that one, but no. You must be tired-" he insisted, "you've been running in and out of my fantasies all day."

"Honestly, Malfoy. You men really need to think of some new lines. I can't say that I've ever heard a more _original_ one."

"Are you hungry?" he asked, as though he was asking her to tell him the real meaning of life.

She thought that he must have gone barmy what with all of the sudden changes in conversational topics. She then realized that it must be a side affect of his disease. "I'm a little peckish," she admitted.

"Good. Can I buy you dinner somewhere nice?" he asked. "Just to talk about our contract so to speak," he back-pedalled after an abrupt silence.

"Damn!" she exploded suddenly.

"Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean anything by it. Honestly, you would think that no one had ever bought you dinner before. Come to think of it," he remarked conversationally, "no one probably ever has!"

"Now that's a bit mean, Malfoy. I'm running late," she said hurriedly. "And I was so busy with your stupid pee that I forgot to get myself a date!"

"As if you could, even if you tried!" he smirked at her. "Where about are you going?"

"A friend of a friend is having a party and my ex-, no I really can't show up alone. Sorry I don't know where my mind is," she stuttered, not wanting him to hear her weakness.

"Ohh, I get it," he smirked slyly. "Shall I come with you then?"

"I er, yeah sure," she said, secretly relieved that she wouldn't have to ask him anywhere.

"I'll Floo over in a few minutes. Is this... smart casual?" he inquired.

"I think it's more smart than casual really," she answered. "I'm sure we'll find plenty of time to talk about business matter so the evening won't be a total bust."

"No evening with you could ever be a total bust or even a slight disappointment," he said so softly that if she hadn't been listening closely, she would have missed it.

He hung up the phone abruptly, and she stood frozen for a moment, dial tone ringing in her ear. She looked at her watch casually, then shocked at her lateness began to scurry around the house getting ready for the party.


End file.
